The Man Who Can't Be Moved
by Rashomon Aetelier
Summary: We know of Luka witnessing his father's death, of the day he caught up to a witch in Vigrid, the day his face was doodled on by lipstick... but what do we really know about a Cheshire's early life and education?   PG, possible Bayo/Luka later
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **Bayonetta property of Platinum Games/Sega, blahblahblah. Besides, if I owned the fandom, this pairing would absolutely be canon. Canon with confirmation, not canon vaguely implied. Lyrics property of The Script: The Man Who Can't Be Moved. Rating for… expletives. You know Luka.

**Author's Note: **So here I thought I was done with fanfiction forever when I suddenly came up with this thing. I blame RP and my really loud Luka muse. Most everything that dwells with backstory is speculation and headcanon so drop me a line if ever I mess up somewhere.

The Man That Can't Be Moved

* * *

_People talk about the guy_

_Who's waiting on a girl._

_There are no holes in his shoes_

_But a big hole in his world…_

Vigrid was a town where everything and nothing happened all at once. People bustled along the streets, walking past places and others who meant nothing to them. This was a town where Luka was but one of a thousand people passing through it that day. In the myriad of intellectuals and libraries, estuaries of intellect and learning this town had to offer, he sought for none of that today. Today, his goal was simple: to return to a particular corner near the city square. There were thousands of corners in this town of byways and alleys but this one held special significance to him.

People passed that particular corner every day, not knowing of what had sparked there years ago. Most barely even paid attention to it. Of course, there were only a precious few who knew the real truth, who knew of the inter planar battles between witch and angel, particularly the one that had occurred there. Of course, they had seen signs of it: pots suddenly bursting for no reason as if fired upon by an invisible gunman, dust suddenly kicking up, grass being sliced and flying through the air. The citizenry had come to accept it over the years. Twenty years was a good long time to get used to something and most of them had learned to be extra careful during their daily walks. It struck the journalist as funny, the way they turned a blind eye to these things and went on in their daily lives. Of course, he knew better but once upon a time, he was as blind as they were. He laughed as he walked, remembering his earlier years, his fledgeling naivety coupled with a thirst for misguided revenge. Ah, if one could turn back time, he would do most anything in his power to make amends for the hounding and badgering Bayonetta suffered at his hands. But alas, this was not the time for apologies. He was almost there

Luka hadn't been back here in years but he knew the way back by heart. It was almost as if instinct itself led his feet; turn here, past that bookstore, cross this street and a left, then go right across the street from that coffee shop. His walk was purposeful, his stride almost rushed as he brushed past scholars, civilians without so much as a by your leave. There. Right there. Sure, they'd changed the streetlight over the years and yes, the café that was right there at that corner had been refurbished but this was it. This was the very street, the very corner he had been looking for. The journalist stood there amongst the crowd, seemingly lost in the sea of people who crossed and commuted every day. Cars passed him in the street and once even, a call of "Watch where you're going, asshole!" when he got a little careless in his distracted wanderings.

There was a method to his madness, however, a reason for his little pilgrimage. After his years of hounding and chasing, stalking and research, Luka Redgrave Journalist Extraordinaire had simply lost it. No, far specifically, Luka had lost _her_. Despite the entire mess with Jubileus and the Ithavol group, the two had decided to carry on as they did before it; he chased her to the corners of the earth as he promised he'd do and every now and then she'd let herself be caught to even up the score. He'd considered Bayonetta rather liked the attention and she considered he rather liked the chase.

But where she was now, he wasn't certain. It had been what, a good three years now since he last caught sight of her? He'd lost count. No matter how many leads he tried to pick up (Enzo would be riddled with bugs by now if he so chose.) all of them seemed to lead to a dead end so here he was. He once considered she was busy with her little fights, her little tirades with the celestial hosts but when did that ever stop him? No, it wasn't her. It was him. Perhaps he was loosing his touch. Perhaps his target had become far more elusive than he was used to. It was time to up the playing field a little.

He'd figured it was better to start from the beginning. After all, when one lost something, it was better to retrace one's steps. This was the corner where it all began, that game of cat and mouse. He could remember that day clearly as if it was only yesterday. That day however, was not a bright and pleasant as this one was and there were far less people but being here was enough to send his thoughts right back. Luka couldn't help but smile at the memory as he placed a hand upon the familiar wooden door with its glass panels and brass knob. Even the turn of the metal in his gloved hand held the same weight. Indeed, it was almost as if time had stopped for this little coffee house while the rest of the world turned. Its interior was the same burnished wood panes and polished furniture.

The journalist made his way to a seat tucked into the corner, away from the rest of the patrons who seemed lost in their own conversations and meanderings. A single hand gesture brought a waitress over and after an order for coffee (Black. No sugar), Luka turned his attention back outside the window. He could almost see it now, almost hear and smell the rain that fell that night the first time he saw her in the flesh.

* * *

-TBC-

Updates will come when they come.  
Yes, the style will get better once I manage to polish up my writing.  
I might move this to a Bayo/Luka slant once I get stuff out of the way, who knows.  
Liked it? Loved it? Needs work? You know where the comment box comes out of.


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Bayonetta property of Platinum Games/Sega, blahblahblah. Besides, if I owned the fandom, this pairing would absolutely be canon. Canon with confirmation, not canon vaguely implied. Lyrics property of The Script: The Man Who Can't Be Moved. Rating for… expletives. You know Luka.

**Author's Note: **I... am hating how the document editor doesn't keep my multiple spaces. Also... why is Luka's name misplaced in the character filter?

The Man Who Can't Be Moved

Chapter One

* * *

_Vigrid, fourteen years prior_

It was raining that night, the sort of rain that was heavy enough to fall in thick heavy droplets. People rushed about either under umbrellas, newspapers or with their coats pulled up over their heads just to get out of it. Luka was no exception. "Ah fuck me..." the youth muttered, running haphazardly across the street and barely beating a red light as he slid into the welcoming awning of a nearby cafe. It was too late however as almost everything he had with him was now soaked despite his rush. His jacket was barely any use and his precious scarf was a lump of wet cloth slung around his neck. With a whine, he ruffled his own hair, now slackened against his face and giving him the impression of one who had just come from the shower. Luka made his way inside the cafe. There were others here who sought refuge from the rain as he had. Almost every seat was taken save for the one by the corner, the one that looked out into the street. Without a word, he made his way to the chair and promptly deposited himself in it. Hardly anyone paid attention to the boy, thinking him another student who had gotten caught in the rain on the way home. He preferred it this way. The less attention he drew to himself, the less people would ask about what he was doing out so late.

Fumbling with his satchel, he begun to leaf through it to assess the damage done to his possessions. His bag had managed to protect what precious little he carried around with him that day, thankfully. His camera was fine but his notes were one thing he refused to think about. Hopefully they were salvageable with a little airing out.

"Want anything, dear? You look soaked to the skin."

This sudden voice caused the boy to nearly loose grip on his camera. He looked up to the kindly face of the cafe's waitress, looking for all the world like a concerned mother. The boy fussed with his scarf a moment, managing to somehow shrink into it. "No thank you. I'm fine." he managed to mumble, his eyes glancing toward the window from time to time.

His answer seemed to satisfy her. "If there's anything you need, I'll be right there behind the counter all night, alright?" she replied before offering him a warm smile and disappearing into the wall of patrons and rain drenched refugees.

Luka could only manage a small nod as he watched her go. How pathetic did he look right now, he couldn't help but wonder. Of course, there was no way he could cut much of an impressive figure. Scrawny boy that he was, rather tall for his age and now made even more awkward looking by his wet clothes and even wetter scarf. But now wasn't a moment for his personal vanities. There were things far more important than that at the moment.

Over the years, he had been wallowing in research about a particular phenomenon he had chanced to see in his early childhood. It haunted his nightmares and waking dreams; water suddenly kicking up as if a scuffle had started to take place. That coupled with a sudden floral scent in the air was enough to make him heave every time he remembered it. The sight seemed to follow him, seemed to be happening in greater frequency over the years since his father's death.

Suddenly, a steaming cup of coffee was placed before him. Luka was pulled from his musings, about to protest when the face of the waitress from earlier came into view. "On the house. You look for all the world like someone whose life is about to fall apart." she said with a small smile, clutching the tray to her chest. "Your folks back home must be worried sick."

The boy paused a moment and shook his head. His father... he didn't want to start about his father. What was he about to say? He was sitting in this chair riding on a hunch that he'd chance upon his father's murderer tonight? "Mom knows I come home this late." he replied quietly, staring into the mug before drawing it close. Best leave it at that.

For a moment, the waitress held a small concerned look on her face but that was immediately dismissed. She watched him as he swirled his drink around the mug before taking a sip. Of course, the wince he gave (from the heat or the bitterness, she wasn't sure) made her chuckle. A moment of silence passed between them once more.

"This is really good." he said, forcing a smile as he looked up at her.

"Tell me if you want any refills." the waitress said. "My name's Claire, by the way."

And with that, she disappeared into the crowd once more.

Claire. He'd have to remember that. She seemed nice and Luka felt he owed her for the coffee.

As he stared into his mug, something off the corner of his eye caught his attention. It seemed like a shiver, as if someone had passed a candle under his line of sight and caused the air to flicker. Could it be? Was this it? Was this what he was looking for? The boy pulled himself to his feet, pressing his face against the window to get a closer look past the misting rain which obscured the glass and distorted the world beyond it. Rain be damned, he had to see this for himself.

There.

It was right there again.

There was yet another shimmer in the air, one he could barely make out but it was there. Then the rainwater that pooled in the street began to kick up, as if someone had disturbed it with several kicks. Without a moment to spare, Luka grabbed his camera and scrambled out of his seat. Nearly tripping over his own scarf several times, the boy pushed his way through the crowd and ran back outside into the rain.

Pointing his camera to the disturbance, he took several hastily shot photos. Time was of the essence now. If he wasted even one second, there would be a chance that it would be years till he next had an opportunity like this one. His hands shaking, he turned the camera's display and uttered a groan of frustration as he saw that there's was nothing the but road and rain and night sky in the photograph. He had to catch something, anything, any proof of the disturbance he had seen. The only explanation had to be his camera. Surely it being exposed to so much water had done something.

"Hmm... what have we here? A little kitten in the rain?"

The sudden voice caused him to fall backward with a yelp, tossing his camera in the air. A half second later found Luka on the ground, having landed firmly on his behind and knocking his head against the pavement. The poor boy groaned, rubbing his head as he strained to sit up. "Ow," he muttered. "What the hell?"

The moment he opened his eyes, the sight of a fully armed woman clothed in black and staring at him with rather intense grey eyes caused him to fluster and try to scramble even further away. His pulse began to race and his heart threatened to leap out of his chest. There was no denying it. There she was. He doubted he could ever forget her face. He was dead certain she was the woman who murdered his father.

And now she was going to do the same to him.

Luka was trapped, frozen like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. As she drew closer, he bravely held his ground. Like his father before him, he refused to close his eyes, refused to shy away from the possible death that awaited him. But with every step, he felt his resolve weakening.

The click of gun metal on stone pavement was like a death clock, ticking away every second as the distance closed between them. Finally, he shrunk back and closed his eyes.

Quick and painless.

If this woman had any mercy, his death would be quick and painless

But pain never came.

The boy opened his eyes and found her standing over him, wordless and watching him with a measure of what he thought seemed to be compassion in her eyes. He couldn't tell for certain though as this was gone before he could take a second look. Luka shivered, from both the cold and the intensity of that stare. His heart began to pound in his chest, so loud that he could hear the faint drum of it echoing in his ears. No words were exchanged between them until he finally decided to break the silence.

"I'm not afraid of you!" he cried, sitting there and glaring at her in utter defiance.

However, she seemed unaffected by his words. The woman drew away, a faint smile playing on her dark lips. She took several steps back and tilted her head with a measure of grace reminiscent of a languid panther. Convinced that she had merely masked her fear with this reaction, Luka took the chance and scrambled to his feet. He was more than certain she was the one; she was the woman responsible for everything. "You… you're the one who killed my father!" he declared, taking a rather shaky step forward.

"I know the truth!" he continued, advancing on trembling feet. Certainly, she towered over him but it made no matter to the boy. He was armed with the truth. "I won't let you get away with this so easily!"

Yet she still remained unaffected. The woman began to pace, continuing her calm casual manner. Her steps were careful, observant, rather akin to prowling. She circled the boy slowly, that small bemused smile never leaving her face. "You clearly have no idea what you're talking about, do you, little one?" she asked, drawing close, almost a breath away from him.

Luka froze in his spot, swallowing once. No. He couldn't let her get to him though the headiness of her perfume was starting to make his head swim and his mind wander with unbidden thoughts. "I… I'll expose you to the world!" he replied, his resolve strengthened by his words and the truth. "You'll see! The world will find out the truth and then you'll pay for what you did to my father!"

She drew away completely and tossed something in the air. "You're better off not sticking your nose in places where it shouldn't be… for your sake." The woman said and as mysteriously as she appeared, she was gone. Luka's camera landed with a clatter by his feet. The boy rushed to retrieve it, eager to review the photographs he had taken that night but all he could do after was utter a loud cry of frustration as he discovered nothing had been left in its memory.

She'd deleted it all.

* * *

Luka couldn't help but smile at the memory. It was unforgettable, their first encounter. But somehow, he was grateful for it, grateful that Bayonetta had chosen to show herself that day. After all, if she hadn't then the hunt would have been over before it even begun. Ah, but he was young then… young, impetuous and didn't know better.

"You ordered one coffee, sir?" asked a waitress as she approached his table.

"Oh. Yeah, just put it down." The journalist instructed, glancing up at the waitress. He paused a moment and took a chance. "Hey, does a girl named Claire still work in this café?"

The waitress paused, watching Luka with a mixture of curiosity. "Claire? Well, she used to work here. Heard she moved away a few years ago after her boyfriend never came home."

* * *

**-TBC-**  
Whew. Managed to update!  
I already have this all worked out so updates may be frequent.  
How's it going so far? Am I making sense?  
Liked it? Loved it? Needs work? You know where the comment box comes out of.


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